OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


LINCOLN'S  GRAVE 


LINCOLN'S 
GRAVE 


BY 

MAURICE 
THOMPSON 


CAMBRIDGE 
AND  CHICAGO 


STONE 

AND 

KIMBALL 


COPYRIGHT,      1894,     BY 
MAURICE    THOMPSON. 


,9 


THIS  FIRST  EDITION  ON  SMALL 
PAPER  IS  LIMITED  TO  FOUR 
HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  COPIES. 

STONE  &>  K I  MB  ALL. 


M609773 


THIS    BOOK    IS    DEDICATED   TO    THE    PHI    BETA    KAPPA 
BROTHERHOOD  OF  HARVARD  COLLEGE,  IN  GRATE 
FUL    REMEMBRANCE    OF    THE    SYMPATHETIC 
WELCOME  GIVEN  ME  AT  SANDERS  THEA 
TRE    WHEN    THE    POEM    WAS    READ, 
AND   IN   ACKNOWLEDGMENT   OF 
THE  HIGH  HONOR  AFTER 
WARD    BESTOWED. 


afjidprvpov  ovSev  aeiSco. 


LINCOLN'S    GRAVE. 


1V1  AY  one  who  fought  in  honor  for  the  South 
Uncovered  stand  and  sing  by  Lincoln's  grave  ? 
Why,  if  I  shrunk  not  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Nor  swerved  one  inch  for  any  battle-wave, 
Should  I  now  tremble  in  this  quiet  close, 
Hearing  the  prairie  wind  go  lightly  by 
From  billowy  plains  of  grass  and  miles  of  corn, 

While  out  of  deep  repose 
The  great  sweet  spirit  lifts  itself  on  high 
And  broods  above  our  land  this  summer  morn  ? 


GR<AVE. 


II 


Yon  little  city  bumbles  like  a  hive, 

And  yonder  fields  are  rolling  like  the  sea, 

From  lake  to  gulf  our  peaceful  millions  strive ; 

Old  notes  of  discord  sink  to  harmony ; 

And  here  beside  this  grave  I  stand  apart 

Clothed  in  my  birthright's  plentitude  of  power 

And  feel  the  thought  within  me  rise  and  yearn, 

And  overflow  my  heart ! 
I  am  the  poet  of  this  golden  hour ; 
A  whole  world's  aspirations  in  me  burn. 


Ill 


And,  erst  a  rebel,  I  am  not  a  saint ; 
For  dear  as  life  the  memory  of  those  days, 
Those  comrades,  that  young  banner;  not  a  taint 
Of  shame  my  record  holds.     I  speak  the  praise 
Unbounded  of  my  camp-mates  who  yet  live, 
Or  those,  with  honor  shining  bright  as  gold, 
Who  went  to  death,  as  to  a  banquet  going ; 

And  proudly  do  I  give 
A  song  to  you  who  kept  the  banner  old, 
The  dearest  flag  o'er  any  country  blowing ! 


IV 


Whose  children  walk  with  bright  uplifted  heads 
Under  that  flag  by  bullets  rent  and  cloven, 
By  factions  torn  and  ravelled  into  shreds, 
By  loving  hands  untangled  and  rewoven  ? 
Both  mine  and  thine,  no  matter  where  we  fought, 
Our  wedded  veins  now  spill  a  warmer  flood 
Than  poured  at  Wilderness  and  Rocky-face ; 

The  victory  we  sought, 

Each  fighting  for  what  seemed  his  children's  good, 
Came  when  that  banner  reached  its  rightful  place. 


Broad  is  our  view  and  broad  our  charity, 

Deep  calls  to  deep,  and  height  to  height  appeals, 

With  the  foregathering  voice  of  prophecy, 

And  boundless  is  the  scope  our  morn  reveals  ! 

Blue  as  an  iris-petal  bending  over, 

And  violet-sweet  this  cloudless  sky  of  ours; 

Thrills  in  our  air  the  vital  fire  of  truth, 

And  o'er  us  swarm  and  hover, 
Like  golden  bees  o'er  nectar-burdened  flowers, 
The  rare  imperious  potencies  of  youth. 


IV 


Whose  children  walk  with  bright  uplifted  heads 
Under  that  flag  by  bullets  rent  and  cloven, 
By  factions  torn  and  ravelled  into  shreds, 
By  loving  hands  untangled  and  rewoven  ? 
Both  mine  and  thine,  no  matter  where  we  fought, 
Our  wedded  veins  now  spill  a  warmer  flood 
Than  poured  at  Wilderness  and  Rocky-face ; 

The  victory  we  sought, 

Each  fighting  for  what  seemed  his  children's  good, 
Came  when  that  banner  reached  its  rightful  place. 


Broad  is  our  view  and  broad  our  charity, 

Deep  calls  to  deep,  and  height  to  height  appeals, 

With  the  foregathering  voice  of  prophecy, 

And  boundless  is  the  scope  our  morn  reveals  ! 

Blue  as  an  iris-petal  bending  over, 

And  violet-sweet  this  cloudless  sky  of  ours; 

Thrills  in  our  air  the  vital  fire  of  truth, 

And  o'er  us  swarm  and  hover, 
Like  golden  bees  o'er  nectar-burdened  flowers, 
The  rare  imperious  potencies  of  youth. 


GR<AVE. 


VI 


Oh,  is  there  now  a  North  so  arrogant, 
A  South  so  narrow  and  so  bitter  still, 
It  bosoms  any  thought  malevolent 
Under  that  flag  on  freedom's  stately  hill  ? 
Not  those  who  charged  between  the  batteries, 
Crashing  midway  like  meeting  cannon-shot, 
Can  ruminate  old  hatreds  o'er  again, 

Stifling  warm  sympathies 
And  friendships  true  that  cowards  value  not ; 
Not  soldiers  good,  for  they  are  gentlemen. 


VII 

O  Federal  soldiers,  ours,  as  well  as  thine, 
The  passionate  wild  love  of  home  and  land  ! 
When  Georgia  called  I  felt  the  thrill  divine, 
And  who  could  quell  my  heart  or  stay  my  hand  ? 
We  rushed  together  on  the  field  of  death, 
Unmindful  of  ourselves ;  behind  us  lay 
Home,  mother,  country  —  all  that  life  is  worth  ! 

Even  now  I  feel  the  breath 
Of  courage  that  did  hurl  me  through  the  fray, 
And  strand  me  by  the  ramparts  of  the  North! 


VIII 

Right  seems  to  dally  as  it  strolls  along ; 
But  still  it  moves  and  never  backward  goes ; 
Each  pace  is  certain,  every  pose  is  strong; 
Crushed  in  its  vestiges  it  leaves  its  foes, 
And  yet  no  man  escapes  its  loving  care, 
Or  dies  in  vain  its  honest  combatant, 
Or  fails  to  conquer  fighting  by  its  side  ! 

Like  incense  on  the  air 

Went  up  brave  souls  where  bayonets  crossed  aslant 
And  every  bosom  held  a  patriot's  pride ! 


IX 


Old  soldiers  true,  ah,  them  all  men  can  trust, 
Who  fought,  with  conscience  clear,  on  either  side ; 
Who  bearded  Death  and  thought  their  cause  was  just; 
Their  stainless  honor  cannot  be  denied  ; 
All  patriots  they  beyond  the  farthest  doubt ; 
Ring  it  and  sing  it  up  and  down  the  land, 
And  let  no  voice  dare  answer  it  with  sneers, 

Or  shut  its  meaning  out ; 
Ring  it  and  sing  it,  we  go  hand  in  hand, 
Old  infantry,  old  cavalry,  old  cannoniers. 


And  if  Virginia's  vales  shall  ring  again 

To  battle-yell  of  Moseby  or  Mahone, 

If  Wilder's  wild  brigade  or  Morgan's  men 

Once  more  wheel  into  line ;  or  all  alone 

A  Sheridan  shall  ride,  a  Cleburne  fall, 

There  will  not  be  two  flags  above  them  flying. 

But  both  in  one,  welded  in  that  pure  flame 

Upflaring  in  us  all, 

When  kindred  unto  kindred  loudly  crying 
Rally  and  cheer  in  freedom's  holy  name ! 


XI 


Great  heart  that  bled  on  every  awful  field, 
Deep  eyes  that  wept  for  every  soldier  dead, 
What  time  the  Blue  or  Gray  swept  on  or  reeled, 
What  time,  triumphant,  Meade  or  Johnston  led ; 
True  heart  that  felt  our  country  one  and  whole, 
Kind  eyes  that  saw  to  love  beyond  the  strife, 
Inspire  me,  fill  me,  hold  me  close  and  long, 

My  every  source  control, 
So  that  the  richest  veins  of  human  life 
Thrilled  through  by  thee  may  consecrate  my  song  I 


XII 

I,  mindful  of  a  dark  and  bitter  past, 

And  of  its  clashing  hopes  and  raging  hates, 

Still,  standing  here,  invoke  a  love  so  vast 

It  cancels  all  and  all  obliterates, 

Save  love  itself,  which  cannot  harbor  wrong ; 

Oh  for  a  voice  of  boundless  melody, 

A  voice  to  fill  heaven's  hollow  to  the  brim 

With  one  brave  burst  of  song 
Stronger  than  tempest,  nobler  than  the  sea, 
That  I  might  lend  it  to  a  song  of  him  ! 


GR<AVE. 


Meseems  I  feel  his  presence.     Is  he  dead? 
Death  is  a  word.     He  lives  and  grander  grows. 
At  Gettysburg  he  bows  his  bleeding  head ; 
He  spreads  his  arms  where  Chickamauga  flows, 
As  if  to  clasp  old  soldiers  to  his  breast, 
Of  South  or  North  no  matter  which  they  be, 
Not  thinking  of  what  uniform  they  wore, 

His  heart  a  palimpsest, 
Record  on  record  of  humanity, 
Where  love  is  first  and  last  forevermore. 


XIV 

His  was  the  tireless  strength  of  native  truth, 
The  might  of  rugged,  untaught  earnestness  ; 
Deep-freezing  poverty  made  brave  his  youth, 
And  toned  his  manhood  with  its  winter  stress 
Up  to  the  temper  of  heroic  worth, 
And  wrought  him  to  a  crystal  clear  and  pure, 
To  mark  how  Nature  in  her  highest  mood 

Scorns  at  our  pride  of  birth, 
And  ever  plants  the  life  that  must  endure 
In  the  strong  soil  of  wintry  solitude. 


XV 

Close  to  the  ground  what  if  his  life  began, 
In  rude  bucolic  self-denial  keyed, 
Fed  on  realities,  yet  hearing  Pan 
Along  the  brookside  blow  a  charmed  reed ! 
O  flocks  of  Hardin,  you  remember  well 
The  awkward  child,  and  had  he  not  a  look 
Of  one  forechosen  of  grand  destiny  ? 

In  field  or  forest  dell 
Did  he  not  prophesy  to  bird  and  brook, 
And  shape  vague  runes  of  what  was  yet  to  be? 


XVI 

Born  in  the  midway  space  where  freedom  seemed 

To  sport  with  slavery,  and  half  way  o'er 

From  where  the  South  in  golden  luxury  dreamed 

To  that  old  rock  of  Plymouth  on  the  shore 

Made  holy  by  the  touch  of  pilgrim  feet, 

He  grew  to  stature  of  the  largest  mold, 

A  stalwart  burden-bearer  trudging  on 

And  up  to  that  high  seat, 
Which  never  more  the  like  of  him  shall  hold, 
Over  rough  ways,  through  pain  and  sorrow  drawn. 


G&AVE. 


XVII 

Giant  of  frame,  of  soul  superbly  human, 
Best  measure  of  true  greatness  measures  him ; 
Crude  might  of  man,  the  native  sweet  of  woman, 
The  immanence  of  destiny  strange  and  dim, 
Brawn-building  labor  with  the  axe  and  maul, 
Braced  and  enriched  him  to  the  uttermost, 
And  filled  those  founts  that  wisdom  bubbles  from, 

Made  him  so  kingly  tall, 
So  notable  of  mien  'mid  any  host, 
The  leader  and  the  master  strong  and  calm. 


c 


XVIII  J) 


He,  the  last  product  and  the  highest  power 
Of  elemental  righteousness  and  worth, 
Gave  all  his  life,  that  in  Time's  darkest  hour, 
Dear  Freedom  should  not  perish  from  the  earth, 
And  steadfast  in  the  centre  of  the  storm, 
Grim  as  a  panther  for  its  cubs  at  bay, 
He  was  the  one,  the  fixed,  the  president, 

The  overtowering  form, 

That  broke  the  bolts  of  every  thunderous  day, 
And  made  itself  the  nation's  battlement. 


XIX 

Set  for  the  right  his  vision  absolute 

Compassed  all  charity,  nor  failed  to  see 

That  highest  sense  of  right  may  constitute 

Grant's  glory  and  the  noble  strength  of  Lee ; 

His  eyes  were  never  narrowed  to  the  line 

By  which  the  bigot  gauges  every  look  ; 

In  Sherman's  will,  in  Stonewall  Jackson's  prayer 

He  felt  the  force  divine 

Wherewith  the  soul  of  loftiest  manhood  shook 
When  war  with  its  wild  glamor  filled  the  air. 


While  all  the  world  on  Freedom  gazed  askance, 

Ere  yet  more  than  her  shadowy  form  they  saw, 

He  spoke  the  foresay  and  significance, 

The  finest  intimation  of  her  law ; 

Wisdom  so  tender,  justice  so  kind  and  good, 

The  warm  appeal  of  limitless  faith  in  man, 

The  goal  toward  which  our  widening  cycle  rolls, 

The  perfect  brotherhood ; 
These  flushed  his  spirit ;  and  with  him  began 
The  universal  league  of  human  souls. 


GR<AVE. 


XXI 

Speak  not  of  accident  or  circumstance, 

He  was  the  genius  of  primeval  man 

Evolved  anew,  despite  the  waves  of  chance ; 

Along  his  nerves  the  human  current  ran, 

Pure  as  the  old  far  fountain  in  the  shade 

Of  God's  first  trees.    He  knew  the  score  right  well, 

And  note  by  note,  of  Nature's  simple  staff, 

Yodled  in  grove  and  glade  ; 
He  loved  the  story  and  the  honest  laugh, 
The  rustic  song,  the  sounds  of  field  and  fell. 


XXII 

His  humor,  born  of  virile  opulence, 

Stung  like  a  pungent  sap  or  wild-fruit  zest, 

And  satisfied  a  universal  sense 

Of  manliness,  the  strongest  and  the  best ; 

A  soft  Kentucky  strain  was  in  his  voice, 

And  the  Ohio's  deeper  boom  was  there, 

With  some  wild  accents  of  old  Wabash  days, 

And  winds  of  Illinois ; 
And  when  he  spake  he  took  us  unaware 
With  his  high  courage  and  unselfish  ways. 


XXIII 

And  fresh  from  God  he  had  the  godlike  power 

Of  universal  sympathy  with  life, 

Or  high  or  low  ;  he  knew  the  day  and  hour, 

Felt  every  motive  actuating  strife, 

Lived  on  both  sides  of  every  aspiration, 

And  saw  how  men  could  differ  and  be  right, 

How  from  all  points  the  waves  of  truth  are  driven 

To  one  last  destination ; 

How  prayer  that  battles  prayer  with  awful  might 
Eternally  tempestuous  rolls  to  heaven. 


XXIV 

He  heard  the  rending  of  the  bonds  of  love, 
And  he  was  rent  with  every  snapping  strand ; 
Toppled  the  temple's  base  and  dome  above, 
Yawned  a  black  chasm  across  our  lovely  land ; 
And  yet  he  could  not  let  the  fragments  go, 
Or  loose  his  hold  on  that  firm  unity 
Welded  at  Valley  Forge  and  Bunker  Hill; 

He  heard  the  bugles  blow 
On  either  side,  and  yet  how  could  it  be  ? 
He  prayed  for  peace,  forebore  and  trusted  still ! 


XXV 

He  was  the  Southern  mother  leaning  forth, 

At  dead  of  night  to  hear  the  cannon  roar, 

Beseeching  God  to  turn  the  cruel  North 

And  break  it  that  her  son  might  come  once  more  ; 

He  was  New  England's  maiden  pale  and  pure, 

Whose  gallant  lover  fell  on  Shiloh's  plain  ; 

He  was  the  mangled  body  of  the  dead  ; 

He  writhing  did  endure 
Wounds  and  disfigurement  and  racking  pain, 
Gangrene  and  amputation,  all  things  dread. 


GRJtVE. 


XXVI 

He  was  the  North,  the  South,  the  East,  the  West, 

The  thrall,  the  master,  all  of  us  in  one ; 

There  was  no  section  that  he  held  the  best ; 

His  love  shone  as  impartial  as  the  sun ; 

And  so  revenge  appealed  to  him  in  vain, 

He  smiled  at  it,  as  at  a  thing  forlorn, 

And  gently  put  it  from  him,  rose  and  stood 

A  moment's  space  in  pain, 
Remembering  the  prairies  and  the  corn 
And  the  glad  voices  of  the  field  and  wood. 


XXVII 

Oh,  every  bullet-shock  went  to  his  heart, 
And  every  orphan's  cry  that  followed  it, 
In  every  slave's  wild  hope  he  bore  a  part, 
With  every  master's  pang  his  face  was  lit ; 
But  yet,  unfaltering,  he  kept  the  faith, 
Trusted  the  inner  light  and  drove  right  on 
Straight  toward  his  golden  purpose  shining  high 

Beyond  the  field  of  death, 
Beyond  the  trumpets  and  the  gonfalon, 
Beyond  the  war-clouds  and  the  blackened  sky. 


XXVIII 

Annealed  in  white-hot  fire  he  bore  the  test 
Of  every  strain  temptation  could  invent, 
Hard  points  of  slander,  shivered  on  his  breast, 
Fell  at  his  feet,  and  envy's  blades  were  bent 
In  his  bare  hand  and  lightly  cast  aside ; 
He  would  not  wear  a  shield ;  no  selfish  aim 
Guided  one  thought  of  all  those  trying  hours ; 

No  breath  of  pride, 

No  pompous  striving  for  the  pose  of  fame 
Weakened  one  stroke  of  all  his  noble  powers. 


GR<AVE. 


And  so,  vicariously  all  suffering, 

Over  stupendous  ills  he  rose  supreme, 

Set  Freedom  free,  made  that  a  real  thing 

Which  all  the  world  had  thought  a  splendid  dream  ! 

Across  the  red  and  booming  tide  of  war 

He  sped  the  evangel  of  eternal  right, 

The  message  brave  that  broke  the  ancient  spell 

And  rang  and  echoed  far ; 
Above  the  battle  at  its  stormiest  height 
He  heard  each  chain  of  slavery  as  it  fell ! 


XXX 

And  then  when  Peace  set  wing  upon  the  wind 
And  Northward  flying  fanned  the  clouds  away, 
He  passed  as  martyrs  pass.     Ah,  who  shall  find 
The  chord  to  sound  the  pathos  of  that  day ! 
Mid-April  blowing  sweet  across  the  land, 
New  bloom  of  freedom  opening  to  the  world, 
Loud  paeans  of  the  homeward-looking  host, 

The  salutations  grand 

From  grimy  guns,  the  tattered  flags  unfurled ; 
But  he  must  sleep  to  all  the  glory  lost! 


XXXI 

Sleep !  Loss  !     But  there  is  neither  sleep  nor  loss, 

And  all  the  glory  mantles  him  about ; 

Above  his  breast  the  precious  banners  cross, 

Does  he  not  hear  his  armies  tramp  and  shout  ? 

Oh,  every  kiss  of  mother,  wife  or  maid 

Dashed  on  the  grizzly  lip  of  veteran, 

Comes  forthright  to  that  calm  and  quiet  mouth, 

And  will  not  be  delayed, 
And  every  slave,  no  longer  slave  but  man, 
Sends  up  a  blessing  from  the  broken  South. 


XXXII 

Shall  we  forget  what  other  slaves  to-day 

Delve,  freeze  and  starve  and  wear  the  iron  chain  ? 

What  women  feel  the  lash,  what  children  pray 

For  mother,  father,  home,  and  pray  in  vain  ? 

Beware  of  treaties  with  a  tyrant  power, 

One  manly  peasant 's  worth  a  thousand  Tzars, 

One  woman  struck  calls  for  a  million  sabres  ! 

Ring,  ring,  O  golden  hour, 
Foreseen  of  patriots  in  a  myriad  wars  ! 
Great  soul,  march  on  and  end  thy  glorious  labors ! 


XXXIII 

Hero  and  hind,  thy  strong,  familiar  pace, 
Outreaching  Time,  is  that  the  world  must  take, 
If  it  shall  find  at  last  the  lofty  place 
Where  Glory  flames  and  Freedom's  banners  shake  ! 
Imperial  hands,  that  never  touched  the  helve 
Of  plough  or  hoe,  may  glove  themselves  in  scorn, 
At  mention  of  those  palms  so  hard  and  brown, 

Those  knuckles  formed  to  delve ; 
But  what  empurpled  despot  ever  born 
Could  buy  one  whiff  of  freedom  with  a  crown? 


XXXIV 


Oh,  nevermore  the  tide  of  life  shall  turn 
Backward  upon  the  dark  and  savage  past ; 
The  flame  he  lit  shall  grow  and  stronger  burn 
With  incense  farther  blowing  to  the  last ! 
Why  build  for  him  a  monument  or  tomb, 
Or  carve  his  name  on  any  temple's  stone, 
Or  speak  of  him  as  one  whose  soul  has  fled? 

No  mausoleum's  gloom, 

No  minster  space,  no  pyramid  grand  and  lone, 
Can  shut  on  him  or  prove  that  he  is  dead. 


He  is  not  dead.     France  knows  he  is  not  dead ; 
He  stirs  strong  hearts  in  Spain  and  Germany, 
In  far  Siberian  mines  his  words  are  said, 
He  tells  the  English  Ireland  shall  be  free, 
He  calls  poor  serfs  about  him  in  the  night, 
And  whispers  of  a  power  that  laughs  at  kings, 
And  of  a  force  that  breaks  the  strongest  chain ; 

Old  tyranny  feels  his  might 
Tearing  away  its  deepest  fastenings, 
And  jewelled  sceptres  threaten  him  in  vain. 


XXVI 


r) 


Years  pass  away,  but  freedom  does  not  pass, 

Thrones  crumble,  but  man's  birthright  crumbles  not, 

And,  like  the  wind  across  the  prairie  grass, 

A  whole  world's  aspirations  fan  this  spot 

With  ceaseless  panting  after  liberty, 

One  breath  of  which  would  make  dark  Russia  fair, 

And  blow  sweet  summer  through  the  exile's  cave, 

And  set  the  exile  free  ; 
For  which  I  pray,  here  in  the  open  air 
Of  Freedom's  morning-tide,  by  Lincoln's  grave. 


Here  endeth  this  Toem 

entitled 

Lincoln1  s  Grave, 
which  same  was  printed  in 

January,  1894,  for 

Stone  &•  Kimball,  Publishers, 

Cambridge  and  Chicago. 


Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 

isDUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


OOm-7,'52(A2528sl6)476 


